The night at the royal palace is always heavier than the day.
Days had passed since the dream invasion incident, yet an air of unease still lingered within and beyond the palace walls. Rumors spread quietly throughout the city—of the illusionist's imprisonment, the mysterious suspicion surrounding the alien sharpshooter, and Karan's execution of an assassin. But the people only ever knew what they were allowed to know.
The real truth remained buried beneath the thousand-year-old palace.
---
That night, King Erlant of mankind summoned the core council.
Within the grand hall, golden braziers flickered, casting light on the faces of nobles and generals alike—illuminating the fear and doubt in their eyes.
"Your Majesty," an elderly councilor in robes stood up. "If the assassin came from within our own ranks, then why does the alien sharpshooter still linger on our land?"
A red-armored war general shouted even more fiercely, "The aliens are deceitful—their abilities even reach into dreams! Could the illusionist have been their pawn?!"
Accusations filled the council chamber, nearly condemning the sharpshooter and his alien king without trial.
But King Erlant only rose slowly, gazing at the assembly and calmly spoke, "I too have considered these questions."
He paused, then continued, "King Turansol of the alien race sent the sharpshooter Velox to aid us just before the dream chaos began. Likewise, I sent Karan as our envoy to their court… Wouldn't this suggest that both sides were wary of each other?"
The hall fell silent.
King Erlant continued, "Each of us could be a pawn in our enemy's eyes. Though the illusionist has paid the price, I believe this is far from over."
"Henceforth, the capital is under martial law. The alien sharpshooter is restricted—he may no longer approach within five miles of the city."
"As for our armies... they must prepare for war."
Though the king's words were seemingly cautious and measured, they quietly nudged the entire council toward distrust—of the alien race.
After the council disbanded, King Erlant walked alone back to his private chambers.
He sat on a long bench, removed his gloves, and gently rubbed a small, unremarkable bone ring with his fingertips.
It was a "Dream Seal Ring," secretly returned to him by the illusionist before being imprisoned.
On its surface was a tiny symbol, representing the Dream Cult's "Seven-Layer Dreamscape."
Erlant stared at the ring, his eyes void of emotion, and whispered, "You didn't disappoint me after all."
---
Meanwhile, deep within the dungeons, the illusionist, bloodied and broken, still chuckled under his breath. "The plan... proceeds smoothly."
Until a mysterious figure in a black robe appeared outside his cell.
The figure said only one thing: "The king won't save you—but he won't let you die either."
The illusionist grinned, bloodshot eyes gleaming. "Then let the show go on."
He gripped the newly delivered Dream Crystal in his hand, its cold gleam flashing in the dark.
---
At the Tower of Pale Bones, the alien king Turansol sat silently in the grand hall. Before him lay the dried-up corpse of the assassin.
He turned to the stoic Karan at his side and suddenly asked, "Why didn't you leave a survivor?"
Karan replied calmly, "That kind of thing... there's no point in keeping alive."
A simple statement that stirred a ripple of doubt in Turansol's heart. He had tried to trust this human warrior—but could never truly see through him.
This was no battle of blades on the battlefield.
It was a deadly game of chess, where every move hid a killing intent.
He looked toward the ashen skies and murmured, "In this game… who is really holding the pieces?"
---
Above the capital, a raven soared.
Beyond the city walls, the alien sharpshooter Velox still stood watch on the highlands, coldly observing the storm unfolding within the city.
He appeared merely a warrior, but deep down, he had sensed it—
the true nightmare might not come from his own kind.
He murmured to himself, "Perhaps… we've all been placed in this game from the very start."
---
Within King Erlant's bedchamber, the candles had burned low.
He slowly stood up and stepped into a hidden chamber.
There, nine mirrors surrounded him—each reflecting a different dream, a different history.
Standing in the center, he spoke softly, "The aliens will not strike first. But they must be made to move."
"Humanity needs a common enemy."
"And that enemy… need not be real."
He turned and stepped into one of the mirrors—his silhouette fading into the gate of dreams.
As the night deepened, the lies became even more real.